“And what if an individual does not wish to be monitored?” Chakotay asked. “What if they wished to pursue ideas wherever they went?”
“From what I understand, for many years individuals of the sort you describe would simply disappear. Eventually, however, the rih-hara-tan came to understand that this was not necessary. Any scientist who does not wish to have his work reviewed can refuse. Of course, they also understand that they would be cut off from sanctioned resources.”
“And there are no unsanctioned resources,” Chakotay said.
“Very few, though in the past several years, the rih-hara-tan and the Emergency Council they created have not been able to control resources as effectively. Two years ago, a group of unaffiliated scientists began work on a forcefield system that they said would better protect the cities. When they had a working model, the researchers brought their designs before the Emergency Council.”
“Wasn’t this a risky thing to do?” Neelix asked.
“Under different circumstances,” Morsa said, “definitely yes. But the researchers very understandably felt they had nothing to lose. The most likely outcome, they knew, was to end up in an Emergency Council research enclave working on their designs in a sanctioned manner. At worst, they would be sent away.”
“So, what happened?” Chakotay asked.
“The council found too many problems with the design. Some of their comments were specious, since it was clear the council did not understand the underlying concepts the researchers were using. Other comments were understandable. Several of the researchers saw that the council had legitimate concerns about the energy shield disrupting the planet’s magnetic envelope, potentially as dangerous a problem as the radiation from the Eye.”
“And what happened next?”
“The research group was co-opted. The council took in those they felt could be useful and sent away the others. Separated, the council believed, the scientists could cause no mischief.”
“And you know all this because you were one of the co-opted researchers,” Chakotay concluded.
Morsa twisted his neck from side to side, a gesture Chakotay interpreted as embarrassment. “As you may have noticed, Commander, I have a large appetite. The Dissenters were not able to keep me well fed.”
“The Dissenters?” Neelix asked.
“That is the name the council gave us…them. And since I have been working for the council, we have made progress with the design of the shield generators. The type used to protect the cities now is twenty percent more efficient than the previous generation.”
“Which is nowhere near enough,” Neelix said.
“No,” Morsa admitted. “It is not. But it is something. If I had stayed with the Dissenters, we would have even less.”
“And you would be thinner,” the Talaxian concluded.
Chakotay continued, “But now you think the others have built the shield generator despite the warnings from the Council.”
“Quite possibly. The Emergency Council has been consumed with gathering materials to build ships. Watching a small group of scientists was not a priority.”
“Did you stay in touch with your old colleagues?” Chakotay asked. “Do you know anything about their recent work?”
Morsa wagged his head back and forth. “They were not interested in speaking to me. Perhaps if you could show me your readings from the energy wave, I could say if it was modulated in a manner consistent with their research.”
Chakotay considered, then concluded this might be a good idea. If nothing else, they would know who all the players were when they got out of the subspace fold. He was rising from the table when a wave of nausea and confusion hit him. As he sank back into his chair, doubled up over his gut, the red-alert alarm erupted. The klaxon sounded for several seconds before Chakotay could muster the energy to tap his combadge and shout, “Bridge! What’s happening?”
Abruptly, the sickness lifted, and moments later the klaxon fell quiet, but the red alert lights did not cease to flash. Chakotay rose groggily but swiftly and raced to the door, Neelix at his heels. Just before he exited, Chakotay saw Morsa pulling another plate of food in front of him.
Chapter 12
Climbing up the ladder to the hatch, B’Elanna had to keep reminding herself that she had been in many worse situations that involved utter darkness and precarious circumstances. She could recall several occasions where she had been crawling down a Jefferies tube when the power had gone out and she’d been forced to scale a narrow incline, never knowing if she was about to lay her hand on a live power source. What difference did it make that she was climbing straight up a (by the feel of it) rusty metal ladder with no other handholds anywhere nearby. None at all. She comforted herself with the thought that at least she could move under her own power. Judging by the grunts behind her and Seven’s periodic admonishments, the Borg was being carried up the ladder slung over someone’s back.
The climb took a few minutes, but she was profoundly grateful when she heard the Monorhans in front of her push up on the hatch cover. The echoes diminished, the air grew warmer, and B’Elanna suddenly found she was out of ladder. A pair of strong hands grasped her forearms and half-lifted, half-dragged her through the hatch. Moments later, she heard two Monorhans click in an aggravated manner as they pulled Seven up, then felt a heavy thump as the hatch slammed back into place.
“You can walk all right?” the leader asked, touching B’Elanna’s shoulder.
“As long as someone steers me in the right direction.”
“Too bad you’re not strong enough to carry the other one. She seems to like telling people where to go.”
B’Elanna laughed despite herself. She still didn’t know if she believed what these people were telling her, but she trusted the leader. “Yeah, Seven’s like that.”
She felt the leader shift his weight suddenly. “I can’t get used to the sounds in my head being different from the sounds of the language. Is the other’s one name really a number?”
“Yes. Her name is actually Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix Zero One. She used to be a Borg, which, apparently, all get easy-to-remember names like that.”
“A Borg?”
“Yes, a group you haven’t encountered. If you had, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“I’ve heard of them,” the leader said.
“You’re kidding. How? Ziv said your world has never been visited by other races.”
“Then he lied. We should discuss this, but let’s do it where we can sit and get something to eat. Pad, Quel—tell the others we’re going upstairs. Sora, see if you can find some kind of trolley to bring Seven.”
“That’s everyone’s name except yours,” B’Elanna said.
“Was it?” the leader asked. “You’re a good listener.” He patted her on the shoulder with a gigantic hand and said, “Kaytok. I’m Kaytok.”
B’Elanna reached out and felt Kaytok’s arm, which was covered with a stiff, wiry fur. “Good to meet you. Now tell me about meeting Borg.”
“What?” Seven asked. B’Elanna heard heavy wheels moving on squeaky bearings. Sora must have found a trolley.
Pleased about knowing something Seven did not (however briefly the exclusivity might last), B’Elanna said, “That’s what Kaytok said.”
Walking slowly so that B’Elanna could keep up, Kaytok replied, “I did not say I had met one; I said I heard of them. About forty years ago, a pair of spacecraft landed on Monorha near the third city. I did not see them with my own eyes, you understand, though I have spoken to those who have. Their vessels, my source said, were not in good condition, nor were the occupants. They died shortly after they arrived.”
“Radiation sickness,” B’Elanna said. “If we hadn’t taken drugs before coming, I would be sick by now, too. Your race seems to have some developed natural defenses because you can tolerate rems that would kill most other species.”
Ignoring B’Elanna, Seven asked, “What does this have to do
with the Borg?”
“The aliens—the other aliens, I should say—they didn’t have your translators, so we couldn’t understand what they were saying, but ‘Borg’ was one of the few words they said over and over that anyone remembers. We’ve always wondered what it meant.”
“It means death for most people,” B’Elanna said.
“Assimilation,” Seven corrected. “A new form of existence.”
“A form of life where everyone would prefer to die,” B’Elanna retorted. “Not much to brag about.”
“I am not bragging, Lieutenant. I merely wished to point out the inaccuracies in your statement.”
“I wasn’t being inaccurate, Seven. Editorializing a little, maybe, but…”
“So you two travel together a lot?” Kaytok asked.
“No!” B’Elanna and Seven answered as one.
“Imagine that,” the Monorhan commented dryly. “Dip your head down here,” he instructed B’Elanna. “Low doorframe.”
* * *
Chakotay stepped out of his turbolift car onto the bridge and found the captain already there, though she could have only just arrived because Dan Fisher, the gamma-shift bridge officer, was snapping to attention and issuing his report. “The shields came down, Captain. Only for a few seconds, though.” Chakotay slid into the science station and began checking sensor data. To his right, he heard Tuvok running a roll call of all the security stations. Glancing at Kathryn, he saw a flash of the anger she must be feeling. Fisher must have seen it, too, because he stepped away from the CO’s chair and said, “Engineering is standing by, Captain.”
The veins in her temples popping, the captain snapped, “Engineering, this is the captain. Report—and don’t tell me you don’t know what happened.”
“Engineering, Chief Jango here.” Chakotay was pleased to hear Jango’s voice. He was one of the older, more seasoned members of B’Elanna’s team, a Starfleet vet who had formed a personal attachment to the captain because (he told Chakotay once) she bore a striking resemblance to Jango’s oldest daughter.
Kathryn smiled, the stress lines around her eyes softening. “Good to hear you’re down there, Bill. Give me a status report.”
“You’re not going to like this, Captain,” Jango said. “But we really don’t know what happened. We’ve been monitoring a slow drain on the core over the past couple hours, but it wasn’t enough to make anyone really nervous. Figured the baby was just missing its mam.”
Chakotay almost laughed aloud. Not many people got to talk about B’Elanna that way, though he knew there was a myth among the engineers that the main core always ran better when B’Elanna was on board, even if she was nowhere near the engine room.
“Then, about five minutes ago,” Jango continued, “the main board shot out an alert that the coolant injectors were offline and scrambled the entire core. We tried to keep everything running off secondaries until we figured out what was wrong, but the shields were drawing too much. Mr. Carey says you two were working on these. Is that right?”
“That’s right, Bill. Check the radiation levels in the core if Joe hasn’t already.”
“He’s crawling around the injectors right this second with a radiation scanner, trying to figure out which seal is going to pop.”
Kathryn rubbed her forehead. “How much time do we have left, Bill?”
“Going by what I’ve seen, you’re going to want to get out of here in the next five hours, Captain. Maybe a little more. Depends on how much guidance control you’ll be wanting.”
“All right, Bill. Keep us posted. Let me know if you get a better estimate.”
“Will do.”
As soon as she signed off, Tuvok signaled to the captain that he wished to speak to her privately. Janeway stalked to her office, indicating that Chakotay and Tuvok should follow. She didn’t even sit down when they entered, but only walked around behind her desk and stood with one hand resting on the back of the chair. “Make this quick, Tuvok. Harry and I were working on something…” The Vulcan stood stock-still, arms folded behind his back, and looked straight ahead. Sensing his mood, Kathryn stopped speaking, and nodded once stiffly.
Tuvok said, “Ensign Platt is dead.”
Melissa Platt had been one of Chakotay’s, a Maquis who been drawn to the group on ideological grounds. A student at Mars University, she had been so incensed by the plight of the Juhrayan colonists that she had quit school to join the Maquis. Though she had been too physically timid to help in armed conflicts, Chakotay had been glad to have her in his group because Melissa had been one of the warmest, most caring individuals he had ever met. Also, she had shown an uncanny knack for repairing weapons systems, likely born out of the same patience and attention to detail that had made her a first-rate student. Tuvok often told Chakotay that he had been glad to have Platt in security. Some altercations were better addressed with a quiet word than a phaser set on stun.
“What happened to her?” Kathryn asked.
“She walked into a doorway expecting the door to open for her. It did not, though it was temporarily immaterial when our shields dropped.”
Chakotay closed his eyes, not wanting to picture what must have happened next. Kathryn said, “And then the shields went back up.”
“Yes,” Tuvok said. “If it is any consolation, the Doctor said she died instantaneously.”
Kathryn nodded, her face ashen with grief and anger. “All right. See that her body is put into stasis so we can have a service when we’re clear of subspace.”
Tuvok cleared his throat, then continued. “They are having some trouble recovering the body. I told them to simply cut away the door and put Ensign Platt in a closed casket.”
“Oh, God,” Kathryn said softly, then gripped the edge of her desk and stood for several seconds with her eyes tightly shut, her chest rising and falling sharply. When her breathing calmed, she opened her eyes and Chakotay saw they were once again clear and filled with a fierce, cold light. “All right, Tuvok. You did the right thing. Thank you.”
Tuvok nodded, spun on his heel, and paced to the door. Stopping a centimeter short of the electric eye, the Vulcan turned and looked back over his shoulder at his commanding officer. “Captain, I would be remiss if I did not point out that the next time this happens, it could be a primary bulkhead or a section of hull containing an energy main.”
“I understand, Tuvok.”
Tuvok hesitated for only a moment, as if he had something else to say, but then nodded once and exited. When Chakotay turned back to Kathryn, she said, her voice full of iron, “Come with me to astrometrics. I think we’ve found a way out.”
* * *
Ziv stood with his head thrown back, his arms straight at his sides, his wide nostrils flaring in anger. “I cannot believe,” he said, “that you would shame me—that you would shame all of us—in such a manner.” His hara stood arrayed around him like sheets of polished steel around a fire, his rage reflected back and increased a hundredfold.
Sem dismissed them all with a wave of her slender hand. “These Voyagers do not understand shame, Captain, at least not in any meaningful way.”
“I am pleased to see that some things never change,” Ziv said scornfully. “Quick judgments with no real understanding of what you dismiss. Have you seen nothing? Don’t you understand the power these people wield?”
“They have power,” Sem said, gliding gracefully to the large window. “I’ll grant you that, but they don’t understand how to wield it. Else why would they have put themselves in this predicament?”
“Because they are good,” Diro said, unasked. It was a terrible breach of etiquette for the youngest to speak, but Ziv allowed it because it was as if his haran had read his harat’s thoughts. “They seek no gain for aiding us other than the knowledge that if they had done otherwise, it would have lessened us all.”
Sem stared at Diro incredulously, as if a piece of furniture had suddenly begun to dance and sing. Turning to look at Ziv, she asked, “You allow this???
?
“Times must change, Sem. And he speaks the truth. These Voyagers, their philosophy is not so different from things I’ve read in some of the ancient texts.” Speaking from memory, he quoted, “‘For each of us must go out into the world and drink in all there is to see and to hear and to taste.’ In the end, each of us must sit by the right hand of the Blessed, All-Knowing Light, tell the story of our life, and be judged.”
Sem rolled her eyes in disgust. “And even if I still believed this tale told to children, I would at least know that I spent my life trying to help my people. Can you say the same, Ziv?”
“Some of your people, Sem. And which ones? Tell me, how did you become the judge?”
Sem retracted her head down to the level of her shoulders and scowled at him. Abruptly, she clacked her tongue twice against her palate, then whistled sharply. Under her robes, Ziv saw stirrings like the ripples made by a breeze over the surface of a pond. His mouth went dry. No, he thought. I will not be a slave to this again! “Tell them to leave, Ziv,” she said.
Ziv struggled against her will. I will not be a slave to this again!
His hara all stood as if to file out the door, the programming that controlled their movements older than the language Sem spoke in. Small slits near the waist of her garment parted provocatively and pheromones began working their ancient magic.
Marshaling his will, Ziv turned his eyes so he could look at his hara, all of whom, he assumed, would have their gaze averted. To his surprise (and mild embarrassment), Ziv found that all of them had their eyes locked on him, as if they were willing him their strength the same way that he, the harat, could sometimes lend them his own. Their eyes did not accuse or shame him and one—Ziv would never know who—clicked once softly, a note of sympathy and compassion. Ziv clenched his eyes shut, and though he could not stop thinking about what was beneath Sem’s robes, he said, “No.”
“No?” Sem said, surprised but amused.
“No,” Ziv said. “Leave here. You shamed me once and took my life from me. I will not let you do it again.”